Where Love Begins (Where There is Love Book 1) Page 7

  Catherine bowed her head as she sent up a prayer that the promise might be fulfilled in her own life. But her prayer was cut short as she became aware of a disturbance sweeping through the congregation like wildfire. The indistinct murmur grew to words heavy with horror: “Landed at Dover?” “Less than an hour’s march from Canterbury?” “Burning the fields!”

  A woman shrieked, “Lord, have mercy on us!”

  Already the soldiers were coming to attention when a sergeant barked out orders. The company was much hindered by the number of civilians in the way, but in the best order possible, they assembled for command. And everywhere the phrase, “The French have landed!” “The French!” “It’s the French—they’re coming!”

  With imperturbable presence of mind, Phillip tried to calm the consternation, advising the people to depart without panic. But pandemonium reigned. Catherine watched the fleeing backs of the people who moments ago had been worshiping beside her. “Do you think it’s true?” she asked Ned. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were wide with apprehension.

  “Doubtful. Such alarms go around regularly, I’m told. More than likely, the rumor was started by one of the rabble, since no army messenger arrived with a dispatch. In this part of Kent small children are taught obedience with the warning, ‘And if you don’t, the French will get you.’”

  “But there is war on the continent, these seven years past…” Catherine hesitated. To her the French meant Aunt Nicola and a noisy family of cousins living on the Perronet family estate in Lyon; but France was also England’s rival and it was just possible….

  Phillip joined them. “All the more reason to suppose the French well-occupied on the continent. But the fox is with the hens now—the story of an invasion will spread through the town and tumult will reign for at least twenty-four hours. There will be no chance of holding another service for some time. We may as well go on.” His voice was level, his words practical; but the tight set of his features bespoke his disappointment at having the service end in such shambles.

  Nine

  THEY RETURNED TO THE Chaucer Inn, dispirited and hungry. Ned urged Catherine and Phillip to change into riding wear and pack their belongings while he ordered a midday meal. What belongings? Was the retort that sprang to Catherine’s mind, but she bit it back and turned to do her brother’s bidding. She knew Phillip would remove his cassock and replace it with a black frock coat, similar to the garment her brother wore. Close-fitting to the waist, with a flared skirt to knee level, its back and side vents offered comfortable riding attire for the men.

  Catherine had no such comfortable garment. Each day’s travel had made her regret more the loss of her luggage in the flooded river. She had purchased an ivory comb and a boar bristle brush and a few other items of absolute necessity, but she had chosen to hold out until she reached Shoreham and her mother’s dressmaker before replacing her wardrobe.

  With a sigh she tied a full-length cotton apron over her gown to cover the worst of the spots and provide what additional warmth it offered. She could only be thankful that the day of the accident she was wearing the warmer of her two dresses and her long, hooded mantle. Even if the rain returned, she would have some shelter.

  But that was her only comforting thought an hour later as they set out again on their journey. Catherine had never traveled the road to Tunbridge Wells, the next town where a Society was awaiting them, but she knew it was a long ride, and that their reception at the meetings Ned and Phillip would hold along the way was unlikely to be any friendlier than that they had encountered so far.

  As they left Canterbury and rode into the lush green countryside of Kent, however, Catherine felt her spirits rise. Never mind what hardship might lie ahead, for the moment all around her was sweetness and beauty. Surely this had to be the pleasantest, greenest land God ever smiled upon. Sprouting fields of spring green hops twining their tendrils up rows of poles, fields of rape wheat exploding with vibrant yellow, vegetable gardens with their tidy rows of nascent plants greening and growing as April passed into May. Fruit orchards promised autumn bounty with branches of swelling buds ready to burst into bloom. Their path wound between tall Hawthorn bushes, limbs heavy with sweet-smelling May blossom. Catherine reached out and broke off a branch, then buried her face in the blooms.

  Past the May hedge the field opened out into a pasture dotted with young lambs following their ewes on wobbly legs. Catherine smiled as several of the curious creatures tottered toward them, nudging and shoving one another like the unruly school children she had left behind her. “Indeed, we are the sheep of His pasture.” She spoke only softly, musing to herself and Ned, behind whom she rode at the moment, made no reply. Here and there the pastoral scene was dotted with red brick, tile-roofed farmhouses and round, cone-roofed oast houses where the locally grown hops would be dried for brewing in the fall.

  Catherine took a deep breath of the scented country air, noting the contrast to the close, smoke-filled London odors she had left behind her. It was so good to get out into the beauties of the countryside. Problems and disappointments seemed so far away, Charles Wesley, Isaiah Smithson… But then she worried. That was unfair. She couldn’t really abandon Isaiah and his family and all the others like them the Methodist Society ministered to while she enjoyed a pleasant jaunt through the spring countryside.

  And yet, wasn’t that exactly what she had done? She could only pray that her meagre efforts to support Ned and Phillip might be an adequate recompense for the kingdom. And that she could somehow manage to double her efforts when she returned to her work.

  At Ned’s request, the little party made a detour in their circuit to spend the night at Vincent Perronet’s farm. The stone house was surrounded by rich, black soil and green pastures that fed the red-brown Guernsey cows. The land agent greeted the travelers warmly, and his wife served tea and parkin while Ned went over the account books with his father’s steward. Catherine savored the heavy, oatmeal spice cake sweetened with honey, as she listened to Mrs. Adisham’s gossip about the tenants and her own brood who were now all married or successfully apprenticed.

  “Our Mary was the last to go. She married a ship’s chandler over to Dover way. I’d like it right fine to go a’visiting when her first is born, but Adisham says he can’t take me until after the harvest. And I says the child will like to be walking by then and isn’t it time he thought about taking it a little easier? His rheumatiz troubles him something fierce when the rains come on. But your father is the fairest of landlords, Miss Catherine, a right finer man to work for there isn’t.”

  Catherine beamed with pleasure at the goodwife’s kind words and complimented her baking. She sympathized with the woman’s desire to help at the birth of her new grandchild, but could see no practical assistance she could offer.

  After the most restful night Catherine had spent on the journey and a hearty country breakfast the next morning, when the travelers had depleted even Mrs. Adisham’s generous table, Farmer Adisham conducted his guests on a tour around the farm. “They’s good, hardworking tenants,” he pointed to a small cottage nestled in a clump of trees. “But you won’t see much labor about today, not with the Maying.” He indicated a group of milkmaids walking beside the road, boughs of pink-tinged hawthorn blossoms in their arms.

  “Oh, it’s May Day!” Catherine clapped her hands together. Catherine might now live and work in London but she cherished warm memories of growing up in her father’s country parish where the parsonage children delighted in taking part in village festivals.

  Turning westward, their way led through the village of Chartham where they were met with the charming sight of a cluster of country revelers dancing around a flower-decked maypole to the lively tune of a fiddler. With memories of her own childhood filling her mind, Catherine gazed at the maypole, a fifty-foot-high permanent structure on the village green lavishly decked with ribbons, greenery and garlands of flowers. Catherine knew the young people of the village would have been up shortly after dawn t
hat morning, gathering the blossoms and making preparations.

  Although her father frowned on the pagan roots of such frippery and himself spent the day in prayer, he never forbade his daughter looking on. What he might have said had she ventured to grasp a ribbon and dance around the pole, however, Catherine scarcely cared to consider.

  To one side of the festivities sat the floral-crowned May Queen, the most beautiful girl in the village, chosen to represent summer and to preside over all the May celebrations. Near her, cavorting with a band of small children carrying flower-entwined hoops, was another familiar Maying figure—the Jack-in-the-Green, wearing a heavy wicker cage completely covered with greenery, so that only his eyes and feet were visible. On yet another part of the common, a band of Morris men, in their white flower-and-ribbon bedecked suits, danced gaily to the rhythm of the bells attached to their ankles and the tune of the piper who led them.

  Catherine’s heart soared with delight at the beauty and carefree joy. She would have loved to spend the day celebrating the coming of summer, but their schedule did not call for participating in country festivals. Nor did it call for attempting to call the revelers to more eternal thoughts by attempting a spot of field preaching although Catherine felt certain many a Methodist preacher might try to do so. Phillip seemed content to continue on.

  This would be their only day of such leisure, however, for all others would begin with early morning preaching to the laborers making their way to the fields, a shorter message to groups pausing for their mid-day meal, and an evening service at the end of each day. Such was the pattern set by the Reverend Mr. Wesley for his itinerate preachers and Phillip Ferrar could never be accused of slacking.

  In all, it took five more days of wearisome pillion riding before they reached Tunbridge Wells. Catherine felt as if she had grown to Jezreel and wondered, if a mythological male with four horse’s legs was a centaur, what a female creature might be called.

  The hardest day was that at Goudhurst. Catherine rose at four o’clock in the morning for her private devotions; Phillip held the first preaching service at five o’clock in a field so wet with morning dew Catherine was sure she and all the congregation would catch their death of pneumonia. Then followed three more services throughout the day at neighboring villages, each with some share of rowdyism and of spiritual victory as well.

  By that evening, as they rode the last few miles to an inn, Catherine’s head, and shoulders, and back ached so, that she wondered if she’d ever feel good again. She did the only thing there was to be done—she hung on and prayed, “Help me to travel in Thy strength, O Lord. Thy strength which is made perfect in our weakness and, O Lord, I am so weak.”

  Catherine was determined not to utter one word of complaint. And when Catherine Perronet was determined, she was very determined indeed.

  To her tense and aching body, there came a sense of ease, as she thought of Jesus sitting at the well of Samaria—‘Jesus therefore, being wearied with His journey’ the Bible recorded and Catherine knew just how He felt. To her mind came unbidden the words of a familiar hymn and she began to sing softly:

  Did we in our own strength confide,

  Our striving would be losing,

  Were not the right Man on our side,

  The Man of God’s own choosing.

  Catherine’s voice wavered. Then a strong, if slightly off-key baritone joined her, lifting her weary attempt.

  Dost ask who that may be?

  Christ Jesus, it is He,

  Lord Sabbaoth His name,

  From age to age the same,

  And He must win the battle.

  They finished as they came near to the inn, its smudged windows and ill-hanging door promising nothing but poor food and a lumpy bed. Still the fact that Phillip had joined her made Catherine’s spirits revive.

  Phillip, however, gained no such strengthening from the added effort. As he followed Ned and Catherine into the inn, he realized that he was suddenly so tired he could hardly stand up. This had been one of the most demanding and draining days of his life. He was not unused to hard riding after little sleep, nor was he unaccustomed to facing large and hostile crowds. These were circumstances any Methodist preacher took for granted. He gladly accepted the circumstances for himself. But he had never before known the additional burden—no, challenge—of responsibility for another. And although Edward was always nearby on Old Biggin, it was Phillip who worried about Catherine’s physical comfort and mental ease as she rode behind him.

  In meetings, he had always been concerned for the souls he spoke to and conscious of his responsibility to God. But over the past days, he had felt a new self-consciousness as he thought about Catherine being in the congregation. It disturbed him that it should be so—that he should care so much about the opinion of another. And the additional strain fatigued him.

  In spite of the meanness of the inn, the landlord Crimpton was able to provide a private parlor where the travelers could eat their brown bread, cabbage, and collops with eggs. As they sat near the fire that evening, Edward, as usual, was bent over a book at a small table with a branched candelabra, leaving Catherine and Phillip in a world of their own, talking softly by the fire. After their brief burst of duet that day, the conversation turned naturally to hymns and hymn writers. Without giving any thought to her words, Catherine said, “Yes, I’m sure the beauty of Charles Wesley’s hymns was the cause of much of my attraction.” She gave a small gasp as her hand flew to her mouth.

  Phillip leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his level, solemn gaze focused on her. “That day we met at the Foundry, you had been praying in much agony of spirit.”

  She gave a tiny nod. “I had just heard of the marriage.”

  He nodded. “And I too.”

  “You too?… You mean, Sally?”

  “She was very special. Of course I had no expectations…” He tried to keep his eyes free of any flicker of pain that might show how deep the wound had gone.

  “So, the refused curacy was not your only disappointment that day.” Catherine put out her hand in a tentative gesture as if she would touch the creases at the corners of his sad eyes, then hesitated and lowered her arm, her fingers just brushing the back of his hand.

  But that brief touch, as light as a butterfly wing, was the most warming human contact he had ever known. The gentle friendliness of it went all through him.

  They continued to sit for some time, the occasional crackling of a log the only sound in the room. Neither one moved, and yet it was as if they had drawn closer together.

  At last, Ned closed his book, blew out a guttering candle, stood and stretched with noises that seemed raucous in the quiet of the room. “We must go to bed; we reach the Wells tomorrow.”

  As if to cover the telling intimacy of the quiet, Catherine crossed to her brother with unaccustomed vivacity and gave him a goodnight kiss upon the cheek. Ned, his arms still spread out in a stretch, enfolded her in a huge embrace. “Sleep well, Cath.” He released her with a brotherly pat on the shoulder.

  She turned in a flurry from Ned to Phillip and became suddenly shy. She held out her hand, “Good night, then,” and fled from the room.

  Phillip was left alone in the suddenly empty parlor, trying to understand the strange emotion he felt. He hesitated to put a name on it since it seemed ludicrous, but… why should he feel jealousy at the closeness of brother and sister? What did such a scene have to do with him? Or was that the reason—that he had never been part of such a scene?

  Ten

  LATE THE NEXT AFTERNOON they arrived at Tunbridge Wells, nestled in its valley of steep sandstone hills carpeted with velvet green. The road into town led down the hill known as Mount Ephraim, the most fashionable residential section of the elegant city. Since the discovery of its mineral water wells in 1606, Tunbridge Wells had grown to be the chief resort of London intellectuals and was second only to Bath as the most popular watering place in England.

  And Mount Ephraim’s pleasant grov
e of trees, offering shady walks and secluded benches, was the choice of the ton for an afternoon promenade. Catherine found she could not focus her gaze quickly enough to take in the marvelous sights. Especially the fashions. She had not seen such finery even in London “Oh please Ned. Can we pause for a moment?”

  Her brother acquiesced to her plea and Catherine marveled at the sight. From her vantage point atop Jezreel she watched the elegantly clad strollers. The men were outfitted in coats of rich velvet and brocade, heavily embroidered on the wide cuffs turned up to the elbow, waistcoats displaying equally intricate needle work in silver and colored silks, with froths of lace foaming at the neck and wrists. Most men wore braid or feather trimmed tricorns atop their tieback wigs or carefully powdered hair, but some coiffures were sufficiently complicated to make the wearing of a hat uncomfortable, so those gentlemen carried their hats under their arms.

  And the powdered and pomaded ladies strolling on the arms of the gentlemen were dressed in sackback gowns of exquisite fabric fastened only at the waist to reveal heavily embroidered stomachers, their V-shape meeting the embroidered petticoat flaring at the hips over an oblong hoop to emphasize the wearer’s tiny waist. Triple flounces of lace finished the sleeves which ended at the elbow; lace caps showed beneath the wide-brimmed Bergere hats.